Encore post: Stuck in the middle

Some of the posts on here have a rather short shelf life. But some seem to gather more and more relevance and meaning as time goes on. And in light of last night's not-so-great debate, it seemed like the perfect time to repost this little gem.

The traitor-in-chief deserves this more than ever. And my only regret is I don't have time to find more pictures of people giving him the "You're #1!" salute.

Let's show Cadet Bone Spurs how we really feel. Join me won't you in raising your hands high, and your fingers higher.

It's impressive to see the line of black, armor-shielded Chevy Suburbans (Made in America!) pull up to an event. Even if the person getting out is the so-called president and de facto racist, homophobe, misogynist, sexual predator, pathological liar, traitor and spokesperson for the white nationalist movement. And Satan.

Nonetheless, it is important that we, as Americans who love this country dearly, make sure he's greeted at each and every appearance in a way reflective and deserving of the class, elegance, judgment and maturity he brings to the most powerful office in the world. It's in that spirit I offer several examples of people giving what can only be called the most appropriate salutation for the man he is. If in fact he is a man. I hear things.

Anyway, you don't even have to see him in person to show him the exact kind of respect he deserves. I give him this greeting every time I see his fat, orange face and whatever the fuck that is on his head on TV, magazine covers or in my nightmares.

Hold 'em firm and hold 'em high. This one's for you Donald.

Make some noise

My car is making a noise. It's a new noise, one it hasn't made since I've owned it.

It's a hard to describe noise. One of those "You'll know it when you hear it..." noises.

I, of course, hear it all the time.

I couldn't tell if the noise was doing damage or not, so I took it to my mechanic to have it checked out. Here's the funny part: he couldn't get the car to make the noise.

He kept it for two or three days, but it was no go. My car was as quiet as a church mouse and purring like a kitten when he drove it. So I went back, picked it up and drove it home. And guess what? It made the noise all the way home.

I thought to myself if my independent guy can't find it, maybe someone who has a lot of experience with my model car day in and day out would have better luck. So last Thursday, I drove my car to the dealer. I picked it up today. For those of you keeping count, that's six days they had to find the noise.

They couldn't find it.

Here's my theory. I believe, much like Stephen King's Christine, that my car is alive. Somehow it's found out I've been online looking at new cars to replace it, and now it's decided to punish me for it.

With a noise no one else but me can hear, it's made me think twice about selling it. I'm afraid when I'm least expecting it, the car will let the noise rip while every prospective buyer takes it for a test drive. I could always trade it in and take the financial hit, but I'm sure just as they were pulling it into the garage it would do it again and they'd offer me even less than they normally would.

As far as I can tell, I have two choices: run it into the ground, or wait and see if the noise disappears over time (just like my high school girlfriend).

Whichever road I decide to take, I'm sure you'll hear about it. If the car wants you to.

Spoiler alert

First of all, for some reasons probably having to do with personal vanity and self-image, it's important to me you know this is not the front spoiler on my car. The scrapes and scratches on my front spoiler are much more symmetrical and artistic in their own unique, random way.

Pardon my Seinfeld-ness, but (high-pitched, whiny, East-coast voice) what is it with designing front spoilers so low? Don't they have curbs where these cars come from?

I drive a Lexus ES 350. Despite the fact you see them coming and going it's a nice car, but really nothing more than a Camry dressed up for Saturday night. Still, I like the smooth ride, the burled walnut, the rear-window shade I've never used and the fact it came pre-wired for SiriusXM. Even though it'll never give me the performance thrill my old Audi A6 did, before it caught fire, as far as cars go I file it under things could be worse.

What I don't like about my Lexus is how low the front spoiler is. It scrapes on curbs. Parking space blocks. Driveways that aren't properly angled. Speedbumps. Dips in the road. In other words, almost anything a front spoiler would be in proximity to.

I have a body shop I go to that's inexpensive and does great work. And when I tell them it's out-of-pocket and not through my insurance company, they give me even more of a break. They're located senseless-murder-district adjacent, so the overhead is low (no pun intended) and they can offer great rates. Sadly, they know me there because I've had to have the front spoiler repainted three times since I've owned the car.

I suppose I could choose to not let it bother me, and just go about my day not thinking about it. But in my heart, like I know the sky is blue, every time I'm behind the wheel I can't stop thinking about the fact I'll scrape it again. Probably pulling out of the repair shop driveway.

The Lexus is the latest black car in a series of them I've owned. And the white scrapes, while unavoidable, aren't a good look. I can only take it for so long.

So I've been looking for something higher. A little more off the ground. Which puts me squarely in the crossover/SUV arena. To date I haven't found anything I like and that I can afford. That's mainly because I can't afford anything in life since we remodeled two bathrooms, our living room and gave the kitchen a complete makeover.

If I'd only put a V6 and a steering wheel next to the microwave I'd be set.

But I'm determined not to let it get me down. Ask anyone who knows me, and they'll tell you about my dogged persistence and laser-like focus when I set my mind to doing something.

Unless it's losing weight or vacuuming. Then, you know, screw it.

Anyway, I'll keep scouring AutoTrader and the OEM CPO sites (yeah, I work on car accounts) for something I can fall in love with and afford. Like my high school girlfriend.

Until I do, every time I hear the sound of my spoiler scraping the ground, I'll pretend it's my own personal reminder that the faster I can unload this thing, the sooner I won't have to hear that noise anymore.

Like my high school girlfriend.

Taking license

Over the past few weekends, I’ve spent more hours than I care to think about looking for a used—excuse me, certified pre-owned—car for my son. Or daughter. We’ll see whose room is cleaner when I get home.

What struck me about the whole ordeal is how monumentally unpleasant the experience is. Not a revelation if you’ve ever bought a car, but always a surprise to me. I guess it’s because like surgery or Christmas shopping, I don’t do it often enough to remember the amount of pain involved.

On paper, it should be one of the most exciting, fun experiences you can have. You get to test drive lots of different models, pick one that makes you happy, and drive off into the sunset, preferably up a winding coastal road where you can let your right foot loose and see how many curves your new investment wants to hug.

Well, not so fast there Edsel.

Because of an incident at Keyes Toyota years ago, where the wife and I were virtually held hostage for three hours because they wouldn’t give us back our car keys (they were checking it out for trade in—no we didn’t buy there, yes we finally escaped), I’ve been adamant about laying down a few ground rules when car shopping.

The first is never give them my keys.

Here are the others: I don't go inside the dealership and have a seat if I’m just shopping. Instead, I’ll have the salesperson go inside, get their best price and walk it back out to me. I make two things clear—they only have one shot at it, so the number they give me has to be the final offer the first time. And I won’t wait longer than fifteen minutes.

Which brings me to my next rule: I don’t deal with anyone but the salesperson. No closers, no sales managers, no fleet managers coming out the door with their shark tooth smile and hand ready to shake mine. If the salesperson can’t make the deal, meeting his boss isn’t going to help.

Speaking of the deal, I never take the deal. Any number they give me has profit built into it, otherwise they wouldn't be selling it at that price. So even though I've asked them for their best offer, I have no qualms about being the bad guy and letting them know it isn't good enough. I'll try to knock another ten to fifteen percent off whenever number they give me. If they're willing to negotiate, I know they haven't given me their best price (which they never do). If they're not willing to negotiate, there's always another dealer who is—all you have to do is remind them and they usually change their tune. However if they start whining about how they're not making any money on the deal, or ask me to come up just $200 more on my offer, I'm out of there.

With car salespeople it doesn't take much for my bullshit meter to go into the red.

For the time being I've taken a break from car shopping, although I still peruse online to see what's out there. But my time right now is mostly being spent figuring out how to pay for the upcoming kitchen remodel. Plus for the moment we seem to be managing with the cars we have.

But if anyone has a fairly new model, safe car they'd like to sell, we can always talk about it.

C'mon inside and have a seat.

Roll 'em Roll 'em Roll 'em

They're everywhere. In jars on the bookshelf, glass bowls on the dresser, the bottom of drawers and jean pockets.

Pennies. The Fredo of the coin world.

I've always been a big proponent of change (SWIDT?). Especially since I drive a car that has a special compartment for it. Armed with quarters, nickels and dimes, I fear no parking meter.

The problem is the thing I use change for the most I can't use pennies for. I know there's a movement to do away with the penny. But I'm not for it.

After all, what will we leave for the next person in that little plastic dish at the car wash and liquor store if we banish the penny? It's a cheap way of feeling like you're doing something good for someone else without actually doing anything good for them.

I know it costs more to make a penny than the penny's worth, but I don't believe that's the issue.I believe it's an organizational problem. So I decided to be an example for my family and the nation by doing something about it.

Today I took all my pennies and dumped them on the bed. Then, counting in two's fifty-cents at a time, I rolled them into bank coin sleeves.

I wound up with $3.50. That's 350 pennies. See how easy math is with pennies?

I even found a relatively rare 1956 D penny in the pile. Depending on which eBay listing you believe, it's worth either $1.60 or $498. I choose to believe the second one.

I'd be curious to know how many people think the same way as I do about pennies.

And I'll bet you know exactly how much I'll pay for your thoughts on it.

I'll be your Uber driver tonight.

I've never used Uber. I get the concept, and the concept scares the hell out of me.

As I understand it, through an app on your smartphone you let Uber know you need a ride.

Then, they let a complete stranger, who's somehow managed to pass a cursory background check while hiding the fact he killed three kids in Jersey, know where you are and what you look like.

They pull up in their personal car, which may or may not have been serviced or inspected since they've owned it ("Brake pads?! That's just crazy talk."), and you get in.

That thing you heard through your entire childhood about getting into cars with strangers? Yeah, not so much.

Google "bad Uber experience" and you'll get thousands of pages detailing horror stories. On the flip side, there's a website called Diary Of An Uber Driver, written by an anonymous driver, who appears to work in Australia, about the nightmare customers he's picked up. It's quite funny, although not as funny as this blog or Round Seventeen.

The reason I'm ranting about Uber is I was mulling over becoming a driver to research a short story in the works.

Fortunately, I sat still for a few minutes, the urge passed and I thought of something else to write about.

As far as I can tell, being an Uber driver does have a few things in common with freelancing: you work when you want. You can take long gigs (drives) or short ones. And you have to make a good impression each time out so they'll ask for you again (passengers get to rate their driver through the app).

On the other hand, when I'm freelancing at home or in an agency, rarely does anyone throw up where I'm working, leave their purse or wallet on my desk, fall asleep in the chair next to me (unless we're in a status meeting) or scratch my upholstery with their keys. Then expect me to clean it up.

The reason I even signed up for Uber - did I mention I signed up for Uber? - is because of my son. He doesn't have a car while he's at school, so he'll be using public transportation (which university students ride for free), getting rides with friends and using Uber when he has to. The deal was if I signed up, he gets $20 in free rides.

Which is $20 I don't have to spot him, so sign me up.

The catch is he doesn't get the credit until I take my first ride. Around the block counts, right?

Guilty pleasures Part 9: Breakdown

It’s not exactly a remake, but more like a parallel sequel. I’m talking about the Kurt Russell wife-was-kidnapped-now-I’m-being-run-off-the-road-by-an-18-wheeler thrill ride, Breakdown.

If you’ve seen it, no doubt it’ll have a very familiar feeling to it. That’s because in many ways, it’s the same plot as Steven Spielberg’s breakthrough movie of the week, Duel.

In that one, a driver played by Dennis Weaver is terrorized by a never-seen driver of an 18-wheeler who, for some reason, wants to run him off the road and kill him.

Maybe he’s seen Gentle Ben. Or McCloud.

Anyway, in Breakdown Russell gives his usual reliable performance as a husband who’s on a road trip with his wife, played by Kathleen Quinlan, when their Jeep breaks down (hence the name) in the middle of nowhere. A seemingly friendly trucker, played by the late, great J.T. Walsh, stops and offers to drive the wife to the next town to call for a tow. She takes him up on the offer, and that’s the last we see of her for the next couple hours.

The time in between is spent watching Russell try to find her, as he’s being hunted and terrorized for ransom by the truck driver and his band of merry yuppie-hunting, cash-extorting hillbillies.

They’d have never pulled this stunt with Snake Plissken.

Directed by Jonathan Mostow, who went on to direct Terminator 3: Rise Of The Machines, Breakdown is definitely one of the best B movies I’ve ever seen. And as a guy who likes to pull up close behind Smart cars in my Land Cruiser, I have a special appreciation for it (I don’t really do that, calm down).

If you have a chance, fire up the Netflix and take Breakdown for a spin.

Or better yet, see it at a drive-in.

Oooowwwwdi

Every once in a while, a commercial comes along that restores my faith in advertising. Well, faith is a strong word. Let’s just say occasionally a spot grabs hold of me and won’t let go.

The Audi Super Bowl spot called Prom is one of them.

I love this commercial. Everything about it is perfect. The casting, the writing, the performances, the cinematography, all of it.

The fact that it’s for a car I love – yes I still miss my A6 – doesn’t hurt either.

Occasionally a director is able to catch lightning in the lens. I think he/she did it here with the shot of the prom queen opening her eyes, just after the shot of him behind the wheel with his black eye. It’s a reaction shot of her, but you feel as spellbound as she does.

So many car spots make the mistake of trying to communicate what it feels like to drive their vehicle. Where this spot succeeds brilliantly – from taking the principal’s parking spot to the beeline he makes towards the prom queen – is conveying how driving the Audi makes you feel inside. Everyone knows that feeling. Everyone wants it. What's engaging about this spot is that it’s about so much more than the car.

If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you know I don’t lavish commercials or the business with praise very often. But to me, the simplicity, the universal truth of it, the underdog winning consequences be damned, is all done so well I wanted to make sure people are aware of it.

You know, besides the billion people who saw it on the Super Bowl.

The daily grind

Like the ability to make change and cursive writing, the fine art of driving a stick shift is rapidly disappearing.

As I mentioned in this post, most people couldn't name three kids who can drive a manual transmission. The real shame is because of that, they'll never get to experience the thrill of what I like to call "real driving." The speed at your beck and call. The precise control and coordination between foot and hand. The shame of being with your high school friends and stalling out on La Cienega just before Sunset and rolling into the car behind you.

Of course I made up that last one. Yeah, that's it. Made it up.

My first few cars were manual transmission, and I used to look for any excuse just to drive. At every red light, I felt like Andretti waiting for the green, revving the engine, giving the nod to the car next to me, ready to leave him in my dust.

Of course, it was a '71 Super Beetle so there wasn't a lot of dust. But you see where I'm going here.

Eventually, time takes it's toll in the form of children, and as any parent knows you always want to have one hand free to reach in the backseat and remind them where they come from. So inevitably the day comes for all of us where we give up the thrill of a stick shift for the convenience of an automatic transmission. We convince ourselves it feels almost as fast off the light. That's it's not so bad, which it's not (I'm good at fooling myself). Automatic really is a lot better at rush hour on the freeway, and that becomes sort of a mantra.

But if I'm ever stuck at a Hertz counter at a regional airport in farm country somewhere in the midwest at midnight - and why wouldn't I be - and all they have left is a beat up Ford Focus with a manual transmission, I'll be able to drive it.

Sadly, the 2015 graduating class of Driver's Ed can't say the same.

Snow balls

I'm going to cop to a little bait-and-switch on this particular post. It's not about snow balls. Well, it is - just not the kind pictured here.

I'll try to be delicate.

I'm lucky enough to have a nice Japanese luxury car. It has many features designed to make the driver, and the ride, as comfortable as possible. One of those features happens to be perforated leather seats, which come that way from the factory - although with a dog and kids, they'd eventually wind up that way anyway.

The seats are perforated because they're both heated and cooled, depending on which makes you more comfortable on a hot or cold day. I've used the seat heater many times. Since I've owned the car, I've never used the seat cooler. Until today.

Now, I'm not the only one who drives my car. My wife drives it, and so does my son. Both of them have a habit of leaving the seat heater on when I get the car back.

Today, I was driving up to Marmalade Cafe to meet my good friend Carrie for lunch. As I was flying up the 405, riding on rails and listening to Tony Bennett singing For Once In My Life, it suddenly dawned on me that, how shall I put this, the jewels were a little chilly.

Not knowing the seat cooler had been left on high, and never having used it, I wasn't familiar with the sensation. And frankly, it wasn't my first thought.

My first thought was that something was terribly wrong with the boys.

After a quick investigation - which must've been very entertaining for the cars next to me - I finally figured out the seat cooler had been left on.

Oddly enough, once I knew nothing was wrong, it just felt right.

The party line

Years ago, I worked for Wells Rich Greene, one of many New York ad agencies that had decided to open a west coast outpost in Century City. It was my second job in advertising, and it was exciting. The people were smart, funny and creative. I couldn't wait to get to work every day and spend time with them.

You know, just like now.

Anyway, there was this rather dapper and flamboyant account guy named Tom Baker, and he invited a lot of people from the agency, including me, to a birthday party he was throwing himself at his house in Santa Monica Canyon.

It was a spectacular house. Literally on the side of the mountain, you had to walk a staircase halfway down the hill to get to it. Not the famous Santa Monica staircase off 4th Street where all the joggers exercise, piss off the neighborhood and congest traffic. The other one.

Here's what I remember. It was a great party. The champagne was flowing, and I had more than my fair share. A lot more. Up until that party, I'd only had a sip of champagne here and there at a wedding or anniversary party. But it tasted like soda - really good soda - and they were pouring it like bottomless drinks at Islands, so I couldn't see any reason to stop.

The other thing you should know is I didn't have time for lunch and hadn't had a lot to eat that day. I think you see where this is going.

It didn't take long for all my champagne dreams to catch up with me. I stumbled my way outside to the stairs, and just plopped down on one of them. I was sweating, holding my stomach, rocking back and forth, groaning and grunting like Monica Seles on center court (look it up). The mountain was spinning around me, and I believe if the good Lord had chosen that moment to take me I would've been nothing but grateful.

I've never been that drunk before or since.

Ann Siegel, a girl I'd been talking to at the party who also worked at the agency, had wondered where I'd gone and came outside to find me. She immediately saw the shape I was in, put her arms around me, held me as I rocked back and forth and told me over and over it was all going to be okay.

I have no idea how long we were like that, but I do remember at one point I broke from her grip, leaned over the side of the steps and projectile tossed what seemed like bottles of champagne on the side of the hill. Ann asked if I was okay, and I remember babbling on just thanking her over and over for sitting and staying with me.

To which she said, "That's okay. Just don't kiss me."

The next day, I asked her to a movie, and we wound up going out for a year. Whole other post.

Here's what I don't remember: Saying goodbye to anyone, walking back up the stairs to my car and driving home to my apartment in Brentwood.

My memory picks up again at climbing the stairs (again with the stairs) to my second floor apartment, and pounding on the door.

My roommate Ned opened the door, and when I saw him I said, "I'm really drunk." Although he didn't have to be Columbo (look it up) to notice the fine perfume of alcohol, sweat and vomit emanating from me.

He helped me stagger to my bedroom where I collapsed on my bed. The room was spinning faster than Karl Rove on election night. Ned brought me a damp washcloth I put on my head, then standing over me, arms crossed, he took a beat and said the line I'll never forget.

"So, is this what all the girls find so attractive?"

Take a beat

As yet another unintended consequence of technology taking over our lives, there's now a new experience for every driver on the road to look forward to.

The beat.

That moment, seemingly frozen in time, when the asshat in front of you is so deeply involved in their texting that they don't realize the light's turned green.

Whenever it happens - and it happens on a daily basis - the ball's in your court. Do you sit on the horn the second the light changes? What's the new etiquette? How long should you wait before letting them know you'd like to get where you're going before Social Security kicks in?

I think the right answer is only as long as it takes to realize what they're doing. On the horn-honking equivalency chart, texting equals fifty putting-your-make up ons, twenty-five changing the radio stations, fifteen eating in the cars and thirty-seven reading somethings.

Texting is by far the most egregious offense. So honk away Merrill (Signs movie reference. Now you know).

This isn't the first time I've posted about texting and driving. That was here. And it probably won't be the last. But it never ceases to amaze me how oblivious drivers can be. In the military, awareness of the environment around you is called situational awareness. When someone's texting at a red light, it isn't called anything because it doesn't exist.

Of course, just as icing on the texting cake, once they realize the light is green thanks to your horn rightfully blaring at them, they usually give you a hearty and friendly wave as their way of saying "thanks conscientious driver behind me for bringing to my attention the fact I was being selfish and rude by texting and thereby being inconsiderate of every other driver's time, also possibly endangering them by my lack of attention to the road. I'll try to do better."

Nah, I'm just funnin' ya. They usually return the favor with a one-finger salute, or by speeding away as if it'll reverse the time space continuum and make up for the extra time you had to sit at the light.

Which is ridiculous, because only Superman can reverse time by flying counter clockwise around the Earth. True fact. Look it up.

If you feel you have to text while behind the wheel, just don't.

Remember, beat is just three letters away from beating.

Call it a loaner

Yesterday, my car started making what I like to call an expensive sound.

When I hit the gas – or as we say in my country, accelerator – there’s a loud clunk as the car moves forward.

At first I thought something in the trunk was being thrown back against the lid. But since the clunk was coming from the front of the car, since this isn’t 1973 and since I don’t drive a VW Super Beetle, I quickly ruled that out.

Next I did what you’d think I’d have learned by now not to do. I went on the interwebs to research the noise. If I wasn’t filled with wallet anxiety before I went on, I sure was after.

Googling (I don’t care how large that company is, it’s still a stupid looking word) the sound and my car model brought up 11,300 results - everything from transmission to power train to wheel bearings to differential to radiator cap (?) and more.

The good news is when I took my car into the dealer this morning, they gave me a loaner to drive today while they gouge, I mean, figure out what’s wrong with my car. The loaner, like the above picture, is this year’s model of my car which coincidentally I’ve been wanting to drive. And it’s a hybrid.

Now, if you know anything about me - and you should, because really, we don't have secrets between us - you know I’m not a fan of hybrid cars. But I’m just going to say it: this one is awesome. Just as much power as mine, all the new model’s gadgets and gizmos, and, most importantly, that new car smell.

I'm also in advertising and understand the meaning of upsell. I realize it's no coincidence they gave me a loaner that's a newer model of a car they already know I love, and would probably want to have the latest model of with all it's bells, whistles and new body styling.

Damn if it's not working. Ad people are the most gullible even when we know the tactics.

Anyway, while I’m hoping and praying my clunking noise turns out to be something minor and inexpensive, I’m also hoping it takes them overnight to figure it out so I can enjoy the loaner just a bit longer. Which I'm sure it will.

After all, that's how loaners turn into keepers.

Winning

I don't know whether I have good luck or bad luck. As a rule, I feel like I'm pretty lucky in life. Things seem to go more or less my way when I need them to, and I never seem to want for too much. God knows I'm not going hungry.

Still, I do have my own wing at the Venetian in Vegas, so good luck clearly isn't always riding shotgun.

But every once in awhile, Lady Luck doesn't have a date for the night and decides to plant a big wet one on me.

For example, the reason I joke so much about becoming a lotto winner as a profession is because I've actually been one. Back when the state lottery was first introduced - when they only had scratcher tickets - on the third day they were out I won $5000 with a ticket similar to the one above. My wife-to-be was with me when I bought a ticket in the little market between the towers at Santa Monica Shores, where I lived at the time. After I'd scratched off two $5000 squares, I remember turning to her and saying "How funny would it be if there were a third one under here?"

Which to our unbridled surprise there was.

My feeling was since it was the introduction, they top-loaded the scratcher tickets with winning ones. Fine by me. I wound up using the money to buy my 1986 Toyota Supra (the first half of the year model, before they ruined it by rounding out all the edges).

Years ago on channel 9 in L.A. there was a local show called The Dick Curtis Show, which everyone always confused with The Lloyd Thaxton Show (feel free to look up both of them). Anyway, the show aired live, and one afternoon they had one of those "...and the fourth caller wins a months supply of frozen pizza!"

Guess who was the fourth caller?

I remember they sent a certificate for ten frozen pizzas, which we had to pick up from the market. It was as exciting as it was challenging, because we didn't have a freezer nearly big enough for ten frozen pizzas. But we had hungry neighbors and I'm a giver, so we made it work.

Just this past week, I won something I desperately needed: a luxury car wash. I take my car to Rossmoor Car Wash in Los Alamitos for two reasons. They do a great job, and it's owned by good friends of mine. Which is why I thought winning their Facebook question of the week contest was a total fix.

Come to find out they had nothing to do with it. It's entirely overseen by their manager, who also selects the names randomly from what I can only assume is an empty carnuba wax container.

So I claimed my prize yesterday. Just my luck, as I was driving home it started to drizzle.

Oh well. Can't win 'em all.

Rein it in

It's that time of year again. Actually it's been that time of year since before Halloween.

Every Christmas season, the assault on our senses begins - bad commercials blaring out of the television and radio, all touting money-saving Christmas sales. Plastic Christmas trees at Costco. Indifferent, tired Santas at the malls. Salvation Army troops ringing that damn bell at me on every corner. Crowds at the post office. Another Mariah Carey Christmas album.

But I manage to take most of it in stride, and in fact even enjoy some of it. Whether it's despite of it or because of it, I usually find some way to get into the true spirit of the season.

However there is one pet peeve I have about Christmas: car antlers.

Granted, it's a seasonal pet peeve, but still. For some reason I don't think it's saying what the drivers of these oversized clown cars think it's saying.

As a rule you don't see this Christmas car decor on more upscale models. So Mr. PT Cruiser and Mrs. Hyundai Accent, I'm sorry you have to hear it this way, but you already look foolish enough without the antlers. Or the nose. Or the wreath on the grill.

Here's an idea: instead of spending the money on car decorations, spend it on gas and drive over to a nearby neighborhood that has a Christmas Tree Lane. You know, one where each house tries to outdo the next. Oooh and aahhh at the bright, colorful decorations.

Then drive home, secure in the knowledge that other Christmas revelers are laughing with you instead of at you.

Once you've come to your senses about decorating your car, if the urge to decorate something is still so overwhelming and you know resistance will be futile, may I suggest adding more lights to the tree.

Or the chimney.

Perhaps a few more ornaments on the mantle.

Or more stockings.

The point is, let's get the thought of putting antlers on something out of your head

Before you do something you know you'll regret.

Up, up and away

There’s no shortage of complaints about the commute. And it doesn’t even matter where the commute is. If you live in the greater Los Angeles or Orange County area, you are, as we say in the driving biz, screwed.

When I worked recently in Santa Monica for a few months, it took almost an hour to get from the west side to the freeway at rush hour. We’re talking mere blocks. And then another hour to crawl home. Everyone has a commute-from-hell story.

It’s not as if there haven’t been solutions offered to relieve gridlock. Like the picture above from 1954. Yes, 1954.

A monorail system that rides over the center lane of the freeway. It follows the same route, and the property is city owned reducing the cost. Stations would be on a platform, visible, reducing crime.

Then there was the time in 1955 when Walt Disney offered to build a monorail system like the one at Disneyland from the beach to downtown L.A., fifteen miles of track for the then crazy price of free.

But L.A., being the forward thinking city it’s always been, decided to yield to the auto companies and not implement any form of mass transit beyond buses in order to drive up car sales. (Just a side note: years ago when there was a bus strike in L.A., the late comedian Steve Landesberg said it was the first time in history there was a strike of a non-existent industry.)

If you want the full story about it, watch Roger Rabbitt. It’s closer to the truth about public transportation than you think.

Anyway, I write this as I sit in my office in Orange County on Friday night, getting ready to make the drive north. I can see the 405 out my window, and trust me, even with all the lights it’s not very pretty.

The trick to making the ride bearable, or something close to it, is to arm yourself with a few things that can help distract from the congestion, and even make the trip go a little faster.

Which is why I have a nice car, E Street Radio and a carpool partner.

Mercury Rising

It's not often I find myself with a reason to speak highly of an insurance company. But since my auto accident a couple weeks ago, I have nothing but good to say about Mercury.

When you're in an accident, the first thought after you (hopefully) realize you're not going to the hospital, or worse, is that anything having to do with your car is going to be difficult for the foreseeable future.

I'm still here to tell you, from the moment I reported it to the Mercury claims department, everything became easy. My claims adjustor called me minutes later and explained the entire process. He had a flatbed tow truck to the scene within minutes. My rental car was ready and waiting for me at Enterprise by the time I was done filling out the paperwork at the body shop.

Since my car was totaled, I was concerned how much Mercury was going to give me for it. But they were more than fair with their offer.

I've been with Mercury for many, many years. Their customer service, in my experience, has always been exceptional. More importantly, it's been compassionate and caring. Important traits considering the high stress situations when you need to contact them.

Our family is insurance agnostic. Our auto is with Mercury, our life and homeowners with two others. We'd save money if we bundled all our policies. But while it's nice in theory, in the real world when there's pieces of my car from the freeway to the road where I finally pulled over, a couple hundred in savings doesn't matter.

Having a company like Mercury, that has proven to me I can rely on them, is much more important.

The only unfortunate part of the whole experience is while I was looking for a visual to go with the title of this post, I found this poster for a Bruce Willis movie of the same name.

From the reviews I read, I'm pretty sure you enjoyed this post more.

Totally totaled

There's good news and there's bad news about my car that was plowed into last Wednesday morning on the freeway.

My insurance company said my car was right on the borderline of being totaled, and they gave me the choice of whether to cash out or repair it. I'm going to consider it totaled and cash out. That's the good news. It's also the bad news.

As if I don't have enough things to keep me busy, now I have to add negotiating with the insurance company for a fair price and shopping for a new car to the list. I'm trying to look at the bright side.

My insurance company, Mercury, has been stellar so far in helping me with this claim. Actually, I believe they'll continue to act that way in cashing me out. I believe I'll get fair market value for the car - after all, that's what they do.

I think the issue will be exactly what constitutes fair market value.

There's a formula they use that involves comparing then averaging the price of cars similar to mine to arrive at a payout number. But the numbers I can find may be different (read: higher) than the numbers they find. I'm getting ahead of myself here. I will hope for the best.

What's nice about getting totaled is I'll get more money for the car now than I would if they fixed it and I sold it down the road. This is my moment to get as much as I'll ever be able to for it.

As my friend Pete said, the decision couldn't be more clear. The integrity of the frame was compromised. The body shop would literally have to cut the back third of it off, then re-weld it back on.

And when it comes to integrity, I work in advertising. I'm already compromised enough.

Of course, my car was paid off and I'm not looking forward to car payments. I'm also not looking forward to driving a pre-owned (used) car. The Lexus was my first brand new car in twenty-one years.

First world problems. I know.

So tomorrow begins the frantic online search of Certified Pre-Owned cars, then planning exactly when I'll have time this weekend to test drive the ones I'm interested in.

Just in case you think I've lost my perspective, I haven't.

Considering how severe the hit was, I'm grateful to be around to have to do it all.

Mr. Lincoln

Since my car accident last week I’ve been driving a rental. It’s not a car I'd ever buy, much less drive voluntarily. But it’s all that was left on the Enterprise lot at 1PM last Wednesday, after what was left of my car was flat-bedded to the body shop.

So choice wasn’t an option.

It’s this little beauty, a 2013 Lincoln MKZ. It’s also a stunning example why I haven’t bought an American-made car since my very first car, a 1965 Plymouth Fury.

On the outside, it's not bad looking. That is unless you compare it to almost any other car in its category on the road. Especially the foreign ones.

Inside, the fit and finish are neither. It is a cheap, plastic-y looking mish-mash of desperation trying to work in unity and failing miserably. Despite all the bells and whistles it's loaded with, it seems like all it's doing is trying to say, "Look how contemporary I am!"

Everything is electrical on it. Electric push-button transmission. Electric volume and air-conditioning adjustment bars you slide your finger across. Electronic instrument display.

There are controls on the steering wheel for audio, various navigation menus and cruise control. But they feel cheap, like they'll break if you press them to hard. The layout is confusing, and if they're going to plaster that many on there then they really should have a bigger wheel.

Also, for all the electronics there's only has one heavily overworked battery. And when the car is running all its gizmos, I bet it's a lonely battery.

Behind the wheel is cramped and crowded. My knees hit the inside of the center console. I thought maybe this was because I'm not exactly a tiny person, but come to find out it's the same for my smaller friends who've sat in the drivers seat.

Don't get me wrong: some of the best cars ever made have been American automobiles. It's not like we don't know how to do it. It's just that with full-salary pensions and giant bonuses, the money that should've been going into R & D on the cars has been lining the pockets of executives and union leaders.

The truth is I'd go out of my way to buy an American car that could go toe to tire with the foreign counterparts I've owned.

But the Lincoln MKZ isn't that car.

Open letter to the person who hit my car yesterday

Dear hit and run driver,

I hope your day went better than mine did yesterday after you plowed into my car on the 405 South.

Well, actually I don't.

What I really hope is you had the worst day of your life, maybe something along the lines of crippling fear and paranoia you'll be caught for hitting two cars on the freeway then taking off on the nearest offramp.

Since the CHP said you must've been going about 80 mph when you plowed into me, the front end of your car must be in pretty bad shape. Surprised it was still running well enough to leave the scene. I hope your car was at least damaged to the tune of the estimated $10,500 dollars - so far - that you did to mine.

Also, thanks for worrying whether I was hurt or not. It's easy to understand why you'd think driving off after knocking my car, which was already going 55 mph, forward a couple more car lengths and sending me flying forward with all the inertia that kind of collision brings with it (good thing I had my seat belt on, huh?), would leave me relatively unharmed.

But enough about me. What about the other girl's car you side-swiped as you veered across three lanes of traffic to make your getaway? I'm going to bet she's not too happy with you either. I think if you ever start passing out apologies, you've better save one for her.

I know you don't know this, but she actually saw your face and remembered your tan Camry. Sadly she didn't get the license plate, because to follow you off the freeway would've meant her racing across three lanes to catch up with you. And unlike yourself, she didn't want to cause an accident.

But I hope you're losing a lot of sleep wondering if the she got the plate or not.

I wish you'd stuck around because I would've loved to know why you hit me. I wasn't stopped. You must've taken your eyes off the road for a sec. Texting maybe? Putting makeup on? Maybe looking for the nearest offramp in case you hit something - that'd be ironic wouldn't it.

I'd also like to know why you fled the scene. The CHP officer said it could be one of several things. Maybe you were driving with a suspended license. You could've been getting an early start being drunk or stoned. He also said you might not have had insurance so you were afraid you'd get arrested. Which you wouldn't have.

But you will now if someone calls in the damage on your car.

Odds are in your favor that unless you have a guilty conscience and call it in, you'll probably get away with it. I hope not. Even though I have nothing to base it on, in fact I have evidence to the contrary with you leaving and all, I'd still like to think you'll do the right thing.

If not, then all I can hope for is that kharma wreaks a nasty, ugly, expensive and unexpected revenge on your ass.

Because after all, kharma, like you, is a bitch.